Addison swallowed once and then again, trying to replace the moisture in her mouth that had been sucked away by the scotch. Her muscles ached, and her head pounded, but after wetting her lips with a slow slide of her tongue, she forced herself to open her eyes. Running her fingers through her hair, she worked out the kinks in her neck before stretching her arms to the extreme, but when she felt a lump under the sheets next to her, she exploded from the bed as if shot from a cannon.

Instantly recognizing the long, black hair sweeping across the other pillow, Addison stumbled back a step. “What the fuck are you doing in my bed?”

Lydia grabbed her head, clamping it between her hands as she tried to keep her skull from splitting open. “For Christ’s sake, stop screaming,” she hissed as shards of pain stabbed at her brain. “My head’s going to burst.”

“I don’t bloody care!” Addison said, keeping her voice at the same volume. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

Unwilling to yet open her eyes for fear even the lowest wattage would laser into her head, Lydia reached out, grabbed Addison’s pillow and covered her face. Through the satin-covered down, she mumbled, “Just give me a minute. Okay?”

“Not on your life,” Addison said, snatching the pillow away from Lydia. “Now what the fuck—”

“Jesus Christ, I heard you already!” Lydia growled as she tossed back the sheets and got to her feet. “I’m in your room, and I’m in your bed because we both had too much to drink last night and unlike you, I had no one to help me back to my bloody room!”

Addison’s jaw dropped open at the sight of Lydia wearing the clothes she had worn the day before, albeit the pencil skirt was now terribly wrinkled, and the silk blouse was rumpled and skewed. “Wait. Do you mean...do you mean we didn’t...we didn’t—”

“Oh, please give me a break,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes. “You may be the be-all and end-all to lots of women, but I’m heterosexual and have no interest in jumping the fence, thank you very much. Besides, if I was so inclined, I sure as hell would pick someone sober, single, and not head over bloody heels in love with her wife.”

Addison couldn’t argue two of the points, but one she refused to ignore. “I’m not a drunk.”

For months, Lydia had wanted to talk to Addison as a friend, to voice her concern and perhaps offer a shoulder to cry if the need arose, but the time never seemed right. Days always revolved around business and nights always revolved around scotch, so when Lydia heard the sadness creep into Addison’s voice, she decided to finally speak her mind.